


the story starts here

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:17:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the day after he achieves inception, Arthur wakes up in his bedroom with a pounding hangover and his ex-boyfriend snoring into his ear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the story starts here

On the day after he achieves inception, Arthur wakes up in his bedroom with a pounding hangover and his ex-boyfriend snoring into his ear.

*

But that’s not where the story should start. Perhaps four years before, when Arthur landed on a job with a man with cocksucking lips and an unhealthy oral fixation, with an accent that shifted to suit his needs, with terribly fitting clothes and broad shoulders and a grin that was too filthy to ignore.

*

Or three days after that, when Arthur was on his knees in the dirty bathroom of a warehouse, fingers curled over Eames’ hips, while Eames choked out his name, sounding disbelieving, pleased, his cock leaking over Arthur’s tongue.

*

Or ten months ago, when Arthur locked himself into a hotel bathroom, Eames prowling outside of it like some sort of caged predator, because Arthur couldn’t manage to look Eames in the eye when he said he was leaving, he didn’t know for how long, that he was leaving and that was it, stumbling into the underground after Cobb.

Arthur couldn’t look Eames in the eye and say it all, so he told the hotel mirror, and his own eyes were recrimination enough. He stayed in there, watching his face, the shadows under his eyes, the haggard face that was new to him, that looked so much older than thirty, suddenly all too wise.

He didn’t come out until Eames left, the soft click of a door, so much worse than if he’d slammed it.

*

Or the realisation, five jobs in, that this wasn’t going to pass, Arthur resigned to throwing away his professionalism, his dignity, biting into his arm as Eames fucked up into him, his pants still around his knees because they didn’t have time for this, they shouldn’t have made time for this, the job a day away and too many loose ends, but here Arthur was, free hand scrabbling against the wall for something to hold onto, and finding only smooth to skitter over.

*

Or inception, the whole idea of it, throwing any sort of self-preservation away, and there Eames was, because he was always there when things were too reckless, he was always there, not giving enough of a damn. Arthur had gone desperate by now, Dom not sane, not close, Eames a continent away, except not anymore, he was here now, inscrutable, eyes settled on Arthur like a stone.

*  
Or it starts here:

The remainder of the flight is an anti-climax, a long stretch, the wait for Saito, for Dom, the inability to meet one another’s eyes for fear of letting it all slip when it’s so tentative, so imprecise, the still, quiet figure of Robert Fischer, Dom’s eyes blinking open, the wide blue of the sky outside.

Arthur watches the baggage roll through the carousel after, black bag after black bag, Eames two people away, the solid set of his shoulders impossible to ignore. Arthur takes his black bag when it comes tumbling between two others, and Eames melts in beside him in the crowd, no bag to be found, either abandoned to the carousel or never on it, Eames too much of a pessimist in the smallest ways, taking all his trips with the clothes on his back.

“That’s it then,” Eames says when they’re waiting at the taxi stand, and Arthur doesn’t know what he means, the job, or the clusterfuck of taking care of Dom Cobb, or the things Arthur could never manage to look him in the eye and say. He doesn’t ask, keeps his eyes straight forward, but when the next cab rolls up, Arthur lifts an eyebrow at him, because. Because he doesn’t know why. Because he just committed inception. Because he’s tired. Because he’s always called Eames the reckless one, but that’s never been entirely true.

Eames takes up space in the backseat, too much, like he always had, never leaving Arthur with quite enough air, quite enough space to breathe. He buys the first round at a bar near Arthur’s apartment. Arthur’s suitcase knocks between their knees under the table, because Arthur isn’t brave enough to invite him over, isn’t brave enough to show his hand.

Except he’s a shitty poker player, he knows that, Eames knows that, and after the sixth round, maybe the seventh, Eames is taking him home. He still knows the way, and he filches Arthur’s keys right from his pocket while he’s distracted by doubting himself, opens the door with a flourish like a gracious host.

Arthur doesn’t know who kisses who first, but it’s in the doorway, the door still half ajar while Eames fists his fingers in Arthur’s hair, Arthur tugs Eames’ shirt out of his trousers, desperate for skin, for anything, Eames’ mouth all whiskey sour, hot against his as Arthur tries to break every barrier between them.

At some point, Eames kicks the door shut, and Arthur remembers himself enough to lock it. At some point, they make it to the floor, Arthur the picture of indignity, forgetting to take his socks off, because he doesn’t care, not at all, not with Eames’ hand too rough around the both of them, painful and right.

After, Eames’ hand is gentle, running lazily through his hair, until he hoists the both of them up, half-carrying Arthur, who mumbles protests, to bed.

It’s easy to fall asleep then. Arthur’s been so tired.

*

On the day after he achieves inception, Arthur wakes up in his bedroom with a pounding hangover and his ex-boyfriend snoring into his ear.

He manages to sit up, fights nausea, stares at the wall, the impersonal print that adorns it, a scuff in the paint he’d never noticed before. He feels Eames give off heat all against his back, and he doesn’t know what to do.

The snores must stop at some point, even if Arthur doesn’t notice, because Eames’ hand lands on his hip, tightens, and Arthur comes back to himself.

“Arthur,” he says, quiet, and Arthur closes his eyes.

“Arthur,” he says, “come back to bed.”


End file.
